


The Shadow / Leader

by rollingday_s



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-10-15 09:58:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rollingday_s/pseuds/rollingday_s
Summary: Ohno was, quite simply put, what Sho was not.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted on LJ. 
> 
> **Disclaimer** : Not based on actual facts – or, at least, not that I know of. Arashi don’t belong to me, unfortunately, or I’d be having them perform a private concert for me right now or something.

Seventeen years had passed since Arashi had their debut, and still the same question was asked from time to time, – “why is Ohno-san the leader of the group?” – often followed by a burst of laughter from either the audience or the guests.

    Most of the time this question was asked in general, to every member – including Ohno himself, – but sometimes the MC or reporter went a long way to ask Sho specifically. As the “shadow leader” of the group, with now more than 10 years as a newscaster under his belt, he was seen as the responsible one, the dependable one. Certainly the more “leader” one.

    ‘Then again,’ Sho used to think, ‘everyone always says how any other member, Aiba excluded, maybe, would be a better leader than Ohno.’

    But Sho knew it wasn’t true.

    Not that he had always known, no. Back in his junior days, he had felt the same as everyone else, that Ohno wasn’t fit to be the leader. And certainly, he had to admit, he was not your conventional leader, but he had his own pace and could really muster an incredible aura of authority when needed.

    Ohno was strong. Silent. Dependable. Wise. He knew when to take and when to give. He had the perfect timing, the perfect leadership. He knew how to treat every member in a different way, but without making any favouritisms. He could spend hours sleeping or not talking while everyone was around, but that’s how you knew you had to listen to him when he started speaking. Because to Ohno, every word counted. And if you have nothing to say, you’d better stay silent.

    Ohno was, quite simply put, what Sho was not.

    Where Sho had a way with words, Ohno preferred silence. Where Sho could take the lead, Ohno would watch from afar. Where Sho could think quickly on his feet, Ohno liked to ponder. Where Sho had to learn his choreography carefully and extensively lest he forgets or messes up, Ohno would just get lost in the music and play with the notes all around him. And of course, where Sho could barely draw an apple, Ohno would make trees of golden pomes flourish under his master touch.

    But the thing Ohno was really good at, was leading. He had a natural talent for it, and Sho often envied him for that. But at the same time, Sho liked to fall prey to the sense of security, and to let himself be guided by Ohno, even if just a little. Even if it hurt his pride. Even if it made him happy.

    He wasn’t exactly surprised, when he felt his feelings of admiration growing into love. He knew he liked men, he just didn’t imagine he could ever like _this_ man. Nor could he ever begin to imagine, even in his wildest dreams, that he would love him back.

    Because Ohno was strong, and Sho was weak. Ohno was silent, and Sho was anything but. Ohno was dependable in ways Sho could never even begin to comprehend. And Ohno was far wiser than he could ever be.

    His keys clanked when he put them in the keyhole. Inside, the lights were lit, but everything was silent. He knew what he could expect: a messy living room, with paint splattered everywhere, and a scrawny figure bent on a canvas – or maybe seated on the floor, looking up, lost in thoughts. ‘Well, you did give him the keys to your house and told him he could come around any time, though. So whose fault is that, Sho?’ But even though it _was_ his own fault, Sho would never admit it to anyone but himself that he liked smelling the now familiar scent of paint that was probably drying unforgivingly on his carpet.

    “Tadaima,” he yelled.

    No reply.

    “Satoshi-kun?” Still no reply.

    Sighing, Sho slipped his feet into his slippers and walked the hallway to the living room. Buckets of paint were on the floor, open, but still untouched. Sho looked to his right, following the trail of containers leading his glance to the back of the room. Standing there in a white t-shirt and faded jeans, looking at a canvas as tall as he was that was leaning against the wall, was Ohno Satoshi.

    “Satoshi-kun?” Sho whispered, tentatively.

    As if somebody had just turned on the lights in a very dark room, Ohno looked around confused before answering with a very casual “Ah. Okaeri, Sho-kun.”

    Sho looked at him a bit concerned. “What in the world are you doing?”

    “Hmm? Painting,” came the distracted reply.

    “The canvas is blank, Satoshi,” he said impatiently.

    “Ah. Yes, yes. It is,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

    Sighing again, Sho raised the plastic bag that was in his hands. “I brought take-out. I’m going to take a shower first, though. You can start if you’re hungry.” He put the bag on the coffee table. He knew Ohno probably heard him, but he wouldn’t reply. He was lost doing whatever the hell it was he was doing. Sho really didn’t understand this creative process of his.

    He stepped in the shower as the warm water sprinkled on his naked body. He had a long day at work and really needed to relax. One of the jobs he had today was to sit through an interview for some magazine – Sho couldn’t remember which one, but he was sure the name was written in romaji – and the reporter, a man in his fifties, insisted on asking him food-related questions for a good chunk of the interview. For that reason, he had been looking forward to dinner all day, and now the thought of food was making him feel hungrier than he was before.

    Of course, the reporter asked him about Arashi as well. The usual questions, for the most part. ‘Who would you date from Arashi?’ was probably the one he hated the most. He just couldn’t understand why he could only choose from Arashi. Never mind that he was actually in a relationship with Ohno, he would never admit to that to anyone anyway. So he had chosen someone else. Aiba, was it? “Because he’s very romantic and he would probably put me first,” he had explained. “I’d like someone who always treats me right.” Or something like that. He really couldn’t remember.

    Then the man had leaned in, lowered his voice in a conspiring tone, and asked him: “Sakurai-san, don’t you ever wish you were the leader of Arashi instead of Ohno Satoshi?”

    Sho had put on a big smile. “Not at all. I think Ohno-san is the best leader Arashi could ever ask for. We are lucky he’s there.”

    “Yes, we are very lucky, indeed,” the man said dismissingly. “But you’ll have to admit, you seem more suited for the job. Why did you decide on Ohno-san in the first place?”

    “Oh, well, as you may already know, we didn’t actually choose him. We decided to play janken and the winner would be leader, and well… the rest, as they say, is history.” Sho had chuckled.

    Stepping out of the shower, he thought back at that day. He never said that to anyone, but when they’d asked who should be leader and everyone had pointed at him, he had felt proud. But then he had pointed to Ohno because he was his senpai, and that’s how it should be, right? So, then, when he’d lost at janken, he was a bit disappointed, even though he didn’t let it show. But deep down he had also been relieved. And now, seventeen years later, he knew that he had every god and every higher power to thank for that bad round of janken.

    “Sho-kun.”

    Sho looked up. He had walked out of the bathroom, his towel around his waist, and was now facing Ohno, who had a bucket of blue paint in his hands.

    Before he could say anything, the man raised the bucket and poured some blue paint on his shoulder, making it drip on the floor as well.

    “What the fuck are you doing!?” he yelled, shocked.

    Without saying a single word, Ohno took his hand and led him to the living room. There, impervious to Sho’s angry yells, he yanked his towel out of the way and started to pour even more paint on his body.

    When he felt like he was satisfied with the mixture of colours, he grabbed Sho’s hand once again and unceremoniously pushed him against the blank canvas.

    Sho turned around livid with rage. “What the fuck, Satoshi, this isn’t funny!”

    “Ne, Sho-kun? Let’s make a masterpiece together.”

    “W—what!? I am mad at you, I’m telling you. S—stop… What are you doing now!?”

    Ohno had slowly started to undress himself and was now standing naked in front of him. He grabbed a bucket and gave it to Sho, motioning for him to drop the paint on him the same way he did to him before.

    Dumbfounded, but a little curious, Sho tilted the bucket right above Ohno’s head, making a pink stream fall on his hair. With splatters of pink on his face and torso, Ohno looked at him, and took another can of paint from the floor – an emerald green one, – but this time he put his hand inside and started spreading the colour on his chest with his long fingers.

    Slowly, he traced his abs over the earlier shade of red paint that was still not dried, and Sho felt his anger completely fading as the man gently caressed his skin.

    Another colour, bright orange. Ohno’s hands on his waist, sliding down. On his abdomen. Sliding down. Painfully slow. Sho took a sharp breath as the man casually brushed the tip of his half-aroused cock.

    Ohno took another bucket. Blue again. With that he painted his cheeks, leaning over to kiss him, pressing against him, mixing together the colours on their bodies. Sho tried to rub himself against him, cursing in Ohno’s mouth when he realised that the paint was making their bodies too slippery.

    Ohno pushed him against the canvas again, making him turn so he could lie with his face on it. He then pressed himself against his back, kissing his neck, pinching his butt cheeks.

    Sho was starting to lose control. He couldn’t help but move against the canvas in the desperate attempt to relieve himself a bit. His erection was now throbbing, dripping paint as well as pre-cum.

    “Satoshi… aah… please…” he panted.

    With a groan of impatience, Ohno pinched his butt once again before disappearing into Sho’s bedroom. Sho felt a rush of anticipation, and his legs started to shake.

    Ohno was back a moment later, with a bottle of lube in his hands. He grabbed Sho by the waist before starting to put a well-lubed finger into his opening.

    “Sa—ah—toshi…” he whimpered helplessly.

    The man put in a second finger and started to stretch him. Sho was at his limit now.

    “Fu— would you just fuck me!?”

    “Hmm,” he murmured, while inserting a third finger. “Eventually. Maybe.”

    Sho was taken aback by that comment. “Let me get this straight. You make a mess of my living room, you— ngg— start splashing me with paint— ah— slam me on canvases, make me hard as a rock and then— aah— refuse to fuck me!?”

    “Sakurai,” Ohno said, a little annoyed. “Has anyone ever told you you like to talk too much?”

    With that, he took out his fingers and quickly put on a condom before entering Sho.

    Worn out from the teasing, Sho felt himself already on the edge of orgasming when he felt Ohno inside of him. He closed his eyes as the man slowly made him aware of his presence trying not to hurt him. Sho wanted to tell him it was okay, that he could start moving already, but all he could manage to say were a bunch of disconnected sounds and moans.

    Ohno took that as a good sign, thankfully, and started moving at a faster pace. He gently bit Sho’s neck and caressed his shoulders. His moans were getting louder with each push. He felt Ohno’s hand wander to his erection, starting to stroke it vigorously. Sho felt the heat expand from the lower half of his body to his chest and his feet. He slapped the canvas hard when he felt the orgasm wash over him and erupt from his cock and onto the painting. Moments later, he felt Ohno throbbing inside of him, and a low groan told him that he had just come too.

    Exhausted, the two men slid on the floor panting. The paint on their bodies still hadn’t dried somehow, so every inch of the floor under them was now being dirtied with sweat, paint and semen.

    “I think this is my best work yet.”

    “I believe I did all the work for this one, though,” Sho groaned. “How the hell did you even think of that, anyway!?”

    Ohno just laughed and hugged him tighter before falling asleep on the floor.

    “Oi! You’re helping clean up all this in the morning.” Ohno didn’t respond, but Sho knew he would still help the day after.

     A pang in his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten, in the end, but the older man was still hugging him in his sleep, and he didn’t want to wake him up. Or rather, and he blushed at the thought, he didn’t want to break the embrace.

    Yes, Ohno was strong, and Sho was weak. Ohno was silent, and Sho was the complete opposite. Ohno was dependable and wise, while Sho felt like he was pretending to be both most of the time. And Ohno could stab his pride all day long. But he wouldn’t mind.

    Because Sho knew that, as long as that man loved him back, everything would be alright.


End file.
